Well. Never let it be said that the readers of this journal don't have strong opinions.

I must admit to being taken completely by surprise by the stack of Eric's hate-mail that arrived in my inbox after posting yesterday's entry. (Well, not all of it was full of hate, precisely, but, Lord, there was certainly no love.) I'll be replying to those emails as soon as I can, but I did want to do some clarification here right away.

Maybe things seem more black and white when they're in, well, black and tan. I actually asked Eric to read the entry before I posted it, as is my habit whenever I write something that might hurt his feelings or whenever I use dialogue to capture our discussions. He agreed at the time that it was a pretty fair assessment of the situation, and so I uploaded. After the mail started pouring in, though, we both wanted to go back and reread what I'd written; neither of us remembered it being as awful as it was being taken.

Yes, he did refer to yesterday as his "day off"; yes, he did ask me to hurry through updating so I could take Sam. That's all true, and if it makes him the worst father since time began, know that it is something he's working on amending. He's come a long, long way since the early days when he didn't even hold Sam much. Yesterday he cared for Sam for a good portion of the afternoon; we passed the baby back and forth during church when the fussing began, and Eric didn't complain at all. He even got Sam ready for bed, with the diaper change and all.

Not only that, but he did the dishes, cleaned the stove, cleaned out the fridge, and made most of dinner. He's not a shirker by my estimation, and I'd argue with anybody who disagreed.

Here's one of the two major problems facing us: Eric is depressed. Seriously, and probably chemically, if genetics are to be trusted. There's something very wrong when he dreads going to work in the morning because it will mean starting the car, and he's terrified that the engine will either not start or make horrid noises if it does. It's not healthy to feel a lump in one's throat when one swallows and automatically start worrying about whether or not one can afford treatment for cancer. And it's definitely not a good thing when the thought that one of his old classmates might own his own house is enough to bring tears to my husband's eyes.

If we're fighting about money, please realize that this depression is playing a huge role.

I'm encouraging him to get help, but he doesn't want to take meds again. For one thing, he's not certain we can afford them. (I'm not certain we can't afford them.) He knows, however, that something has got to change, and he's coming to terms with what he's going to have to do to heal himself.

The second problem is one I mentioned before: Eric's feeling that I pressured him into fatherhood. Never mind that he was an equal participant in the creation of the baby; there still remains his sadness for the loss of his childless freedom. He's angry with me. I don't blame him. He may not have been clear with his signals of unreadiness, but he is as entitled to his feelings as I am. He's working toward healing on this issue, too, but it's taking time.

When he is reluctant to take the baby, it's a lapse - not a sign of poor fathering skills, but a momentary lapse into his miserable, worried, angry state of mind. They don't happen nearly as often as they used to. When they're not happening, he's an admirable father. As long as he's still healing, I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I owe him that, don't I? Even if it's not owed, it's freely given, though I may be frustrated with having to do so.

And so yesterday I vented that frustration here. For the sympathy I was given, I'm very grateful. It may, however, have been overfelt. Do you mind if I hang onto the extra for any future needs?

As to how he's treating me...

Yes, we fight. We fight an awful amount. Interestingly, though, as I thought back over yesterday, I realized that we hadn't even fought once - not in the midst of all the angst. The closest we came to fighting was when I showed him the first of the few emails, and he was so very hurt. I wished I hadn't showed them to him, but he told me that he was glad I did. He was still pretty sad, though, and I felt guilty for my part in that.

We're talking more often, by special effort. Last night we cuddled and kissed after Sam was asleep, and we talked like we haven't in some time. We have major issues, and I'm not ready to say that we're out of the woods yet. Still, I do think we're on the road toward healing, not going the other way.

He treats me very well - not because I always deserve it, but because he loves me. If he's depressed, then I'm doubly grateful for the way he fills his role as husband; the extra effort he has to make in order to be the husband he is fills me with wonder.

Eric is more than I could have ever wished for. He has problems, as we all do. We're working on them. After all, he deserves my patience just as much as Sam does, doesn't he?